On 19 January, Captain Amílcar led the bulk of hoofed and rolling stock out of Tapírapoan. His biggest wagon, hauled by six oxen, carried the two Canadian power canoes and a sloshing supply of kerosene. Sixty-four other bois cargueiros and about a hundred pack mules followed, many of them resentful of their burdens. A much smaller rear guard consisting of Roosevelt, Rondon, and the other exhibition principals left town two days later. They were accompanied by their servants, five hunting dogs, and enough carts and mules to keep them supplied all the way to José Bonifácio. Together, the two detachments comprised 159 men, moving 360 sacks and cases.
The plan was to reunite the expedition at, or near, the headwaters of the Dúvida, then immediately divide it again. Only a select few members were to go down the unknown river—about as many as could fit into one Canadian canoe and half a dozen support dugouts. The rest would redivide, and survey two other north-flowing streams, already partially explored. One of these was the Gi-Paraná, rising near the Dúvida. Rondon wanted Amílcar to plot its long curve into the Rio Madeira. Miller unselfishly volunteered to go on that trip, saying that Cherrie, as the senior naturalist, deserved to stay with Roosevelt. The other unmapped river, assigned to Lieutenant Alcides Lauriodó and Anthony Fiala, was the Rio Papagaio, a tributary of the Tapajoz. If the Dúvida did indeed flow into the Amazon, a general rendezvous might be possible somewhere along the great river’s right bank. Otherwise they would all have to swap stories in Manáos.
It went without saying that the two colonels would have to stick together, as co-commanders, with Kermit and Lyra assisting them. The fate of Father Zahm (serenely unconcerned with anything but his own comfort) was left, for the time being, to Providence.
FIVE PACKAGES THAT Roosevelt did not have to burden his mule with were the early chapters of his book for Scribners. Each had been handwritten on the same triple-carbon pads that he had used in British East Africa, and mailed to New York from post offices along the Paraguay. The last, “Up the River of Tapirs,” had gone off in care of Frank Harper. Roosevelt intended to dispatch two more before the expedition reached José Bonifácio. The rest, describing his actual descent of the Dúvida, he might as well take home with him.
No sooner had he left Tapírapoan than he began his sixth chapter, “Through the Highland Wilderness of Western Brazil,” with a sentence bound to attract the attention of armchair travelers:
We were now in the land of the bloodsucking bats, the vampire bats that suck the blood of living creatures, clinging to or hovering against the shoulder of a horse or cow, or the hand or foot of a sleeping man, and making a wound from which the blood continues to flow long after the bat’s thirst has been satiated.
He left Robert Bridges to cut the redundant second phrase, his indelible pencil eagerly moving on to other descriptions of tropical fauna. Jaguar or jaçanã, animal or bird, every species down to the tiniest insect was worthy of study, as were plants and flowers. Literary style mattered less, but occasionally, as in African Game Trails, he was capable of stretches of perfect prose:
Next morning* at sunrise we climbed a steep slope to the edge of the Parecis plateau, at a level of about two thousand feet above the sea. We were on the Plan Alto, the high central plain of Brazil, the healthy land of dry air, of cool nights, of clear, running brooks. The sun was directly behind us when we topped the rise. Reining in, we looked back over the vast Paraguayan marshes, shimmering in the long morning lights. Then, turning again, we rode forward, casting shadows far before us. It was twenty miles to the next water.… The ground was sandy; it was covered with grass and with a sparse growth of stunted, twisted trees, never more than a few feet high. There were rheas—ostriches—and small pampas-deer on this plain; the coloration of the rheas made it difficult to see them at a distance, whereas the bright-red coats of the little deer, and their uplifted flags as they ran, advertised them afar off.
The command detachment proceeded across the plain. There was no need for anyone to consult a compass, thanks to the bright filaments that Rondon and his engineers had strung westward. Even if a rider went astray in search of specimens or game, he could find his way back by listening for the humming of the wires.
A daily camp rhythm soon established itself. Early every morning a bugle sounded (Roosevelt sometimes adding his own reveille, a prolonged, Sioux-like Who-o-oo-oop-ee!). Then Juan, Rondon’s black orderly, went from tent to tent with coffee. Breakfast was served while the camaradas saddled up the pack animals. Each day’s trek was determined by the distance between available watercourses. Every few nights there would be a line-maintenance station to sleep in, with whitewashed walls, thatched or tiled roof, and cool stone floors. Dinners in camp were served under the stars, on two rawhides spread on the ground. Having fasted all day, the Americans did not stint themselves of beef, venison, pork and beans, and canja, the rich, thick Brazilian broth of chicken and rice. (Rondon noted with amusement that Roosevelt’s Portuguese vocabulary extended to just two words: mais canja, “more soup.”)
“MAIS CANJA, ‘MORE SOUP.’ ”
Expedition members at dinner. Clockwise around the rawhide: Zahm, Rondon, Cajazeira, Kermit (cross-legged), Miller, Cherrie, three unidentified Brazilians, Roosevelt, Fiala. (photo credit i15.3)
On 24 January, Kermit noted in his diary, “We’re over the divide and into the Amazon side now.” The only visible evidence of this was the northerly trend of the rivers they crossed. Otherwise, the equidistance of the horizon ahead with that behind gave no sense of progress. As Father Zahm put it, in his literary way, the Plan Alto was so flat, “one felt justified in denying the earth’s sphericity.”
By now Kermit was openly contemptuous of Zahm, describing him in letters home as “a very commonplace little fool” and “an incessant annoyance” who seemed to think that a man of God was entitled to special privileges. Among these was freedom to beg off chores, order Jake Sigg around, and boast about how many humble souls he had saved. His laziness was so extreme that Kermit took to referring to him as “Lizzie’s brother,” after a languid, melon-loving morrocoy tortoise that Miller had trapped.
Although the priest was flattered to have been presented with a saddle almost as fine as Roosevelt’s, he did not enjoy having to sit on it fourteen hours a day. A muleteer was deputized to walk beside him in case he fell off. Zahm was alarmed when boxes labeled “Roosevelt South American Expedition” began to show up in the grass, evidently bucked by some of Amílcar’s resentful critters.
Relief for him was at hand at Rio Juruena station, in the form of a caterpillar-tread caminhão truck that belonged to the Brazilian Telegraphic Commission. It was a speedy vehicle, able to crawl at thirty miles per hour even across swamps. When Cherrie and Miller, who were unable to do much collecting on the hoof, got permission to travel ahead to Utiariti in it, Zahm jumped at the chance to ride along.
Kermit was not the only person pleased to see him go. Colonel Rondon, as a nearly full-blooded Indian and convert to the Positivist humanism of Auguste Comte, mistrusted Catholic clergymen and especially resented their “fatherly” posturing toward aboriginal people. All the way up the Paraguay, Zahm had been laying hands on the heads of uncomprehending children, blessing and baptizing. Rondon foresaw trouble ahead at Utiariti, in the heart of Nhambiquara country. The local Indians, among the most primitive in South America, were not likely to take kindly to a cassock-wearing stranger who descended on them deus ex machina.
Rondon’s misgivings were compounded by the fact that he had himself founded Brazil’s national Indian-affairs agency, the Serviço de Proteção aos Indios e de Localização de Trabalhadores Nacionais. It was no less paternalistic than the Catholic Church in seeking to pacify and assimilate interior tribes—especially the Parecís and Nhambiquaras, who lived along telegraph routes and whose labor was needed to build and maintain the lines. Yet Rondon had a deep, consanguineous concern for the dignity of all Indians. He was passionate in his Positivist belief that the descendants of the white men who had kill
ed them in war, occupied their lands, and visited strange diseases upon them, owed them a debt that should now be repaid.
When Roosevelt first saw some Parecís Indians on the twenty-ninth, he thought they looked much the same as ordinary Brazilian caboclos, or backwoodsmen. They wore clothes and sandals. But that was more than could be said for their womenfolk. Some of the younger ones were content with a loincloth or less. He noted approvingly that they had many children—friendly, naked urchins who came up trustfully to be petted.
The great cascade of the Rio Papagaio heralded itself the following day with a distant roar and slowly intensifying vibration underfoot. Then mist columns appeared, swaying and breaking. Riverside trees opened out and disclosed a stupendous sheet of white-green water, thundering into an almost invisible gorge. Roosevelt was thrilled, and told Rondon so. “With the exception of Niagara, there is nothing in North America to compare with this fall at Utiariti.”
He forgot, or modestly chose not to say, that he had once been compared to Niagara himself.
MUCH AS HE WOULD have liked to spend hours staring at the cataract, he had to deal with a disagreeable problem in town. Father Zahm had made himself unctuously objectionable to Utiariti’s Parecís population. He was claiming “a goodly number of baptized Indians” as a result of his visit.
Kermit sneered and Roosevelt was infuriated, but Rondon felt unable to stop the priest from catechizing. The Serviço de Proteção’s official policy, framed by himself, was to respect the “spiritual freedom” of Indians. That included allowing them to pledge to any creed, as long as they were not forced to do so.
When the two colonels met up with Zahm, they found him in full missionary mode. He said he wanted to spread the word of God into “Nhambiquara Land,” the stretch of broken country extending from Utiariti to José Bonifácio. Rather than ride any more on a mule, he thought he would travel in a padiola, or sedan chair, borne by some Parecís.
“The Indian is used to carrying priests,” Zahm explained. “Often in the past I’ve used this way of getting around.”
Before Rondon could protest, Roosevelt said, “You realize, of course, that you will be abusing the principles of my good friend Colonel Rondon.”
A heated three-way discussion ensued. Zahm said that Peruvian Indians considered it an honor to bear the weight of Roman Catholic clergy. Rondon replied that such servility was contrary to “the habits and character” of Brazilian tribes. His agency was working to make them full citizens of the republic. If it meant to suppress them, he added sarcastically, it would model its policies on those of the Jesuits.
Roosevelt ended the argument by summoning Zahm to his tent. He heard the priest out, then issued a formal order. “Since you can’t stand to ride any more, you will return to Tapírapoan immediately, and Sigg will go with you.”
Moving at once, as he had as President, to prevent any appointee from suing for wrongful dismissal, he scribbled a memo for his fellow principals to sign:
Every American member of the expedition has told me that in his opinion it is essential to the success and well being of the expedition that Father Zahm should at once leave it and return to the coast civilization the settled country
Theodore Roosevelt
Nine signatures were appended, including even Sigg’s.
FEBRUARY CAME with a heavy rain that delayed Zahm’s departure and cast Kermit into deep gloom. “Cat very sad,” he noted in his diary, using his pet name for himself, and on the next day, “Cat most unusually sad.” He was accustomed to a sense of social isolation that set him apart, even when surrounded by jocular company. But his current malaise was primarily sexual. Just before he had set off up the Paraguay with his father, Belle Willard had surprised him by accepting his written proposal of marriage. Her letter had awakened in him a vast impatience to have done with this expedition, so much less enjoyable than the great Roosevelt safari of five years before. The longer he languished in Mato Grosso, the more he feared Belle might change her mind. Her father was now President Wilson’s ambassador to Spain. She was a party-loving young lady, and relocation to Madrid was sure to enlarge her already glittering field of acquaintance.
Hunting might have worked off some of Kermit’s frustration, but the grasslands were lacking in game. He took what consolation he could find in reading Camões’s Os Lusíadas, that great Portuguese epic of other yearning wanderers, filled with a bittersweet sense of loss.
The rain thinned next day, enough for Roosevelt to spend most of the afternoon contemplating the Utiariti falls. He too was restless, but only Rondon—busying himself with preparations for Lauriodó’s trip down the Papagaio—knew what the reason was. Speaking as colonel to colonel, Roosevelt had confided that he was tormented by the possibility of the United States going to war with Mexico. President Wilson (whose health he had toasted on Christmas Eve, at dinner aboard the Nioac) had not, at last report, done anything to arrest the rapid deterioration in relations between the two countries. If hostilities broke out, Roosevelt wanted to be back in uniform and fighting for his flag, not lost to the world in a wilderness where the only armies were ropes of ants.
And where, after all, was the Rio da Dúvida? To the American team, it seemed to recede like a mirage westward, no matter how long each day’s trek. At their current rate of advance, slowed by storms, recalcitrant pack animals, and Rondon’s weighty marquees, they would not reach José Bonifácio for another three weeks. Meanwhile the Papagaio confronted him, running north in the direction he really wanted to go. Flecked and whitish-green, it accelerated toward its straight line of collapse. Lauriodó and Fiala would be enjoying that exhilarating momentum very soon.
Father Zahm salvaged some dignity, and saved himself and Sigg many days on muleback, by wangling two caminhão seats back to Tapírapoan. But the Americans were not around to bid him Godspeed. They set out for José Bonifácio on 4 February, leaving Rondon to dispatch his Papagaio crew and catch up with them later. Roosevelt began a new chapter of his book: From this point we were to enter a still wilder region, the land of the naked Nhambiquaras.
There followed three days of semi-progress as deluge after deluge turned the trail into a slough that eventually sucked the oxen to a halt. Browsable forage was scarce, and nine mules starved to death. The sodden plateau gave forth a myriad of bloodthirsty pium flies. They were about as easy to swat away as fog, and their bites left black spots that refused to fade. In order to continue writing, Roosevelt had to drape a cheesecloth over his helmet and wield his pencil with gloved fingers. “I must make good to Scribner,” he kept saying.
Kermit, Cherrie, and Miller agreed with him that the expedition was bogging down in more ways than one. It must convert to mule transport only. Roosevelt hiked back to make this recommendation to Rondon, in tones that brooked no disagreement. The last Brazilian tents must be abandoned. Rain or no rain, principals would have to sleep forthwith under the lightest possible covering, and the camaradas left to devise their own shelters. There was no question of carrying the big Canadian canoes any farther. Rondon’s requisitioned dugouts would have to do when they got to the Dúvida.
The carts were emptied and pack animals loaded only with essential equipment. Travel resumed at an improved pace (the telegraph lines undulating ahead on their numbered poles, eleven spans to the kilometer, each rise and fall counterpointed, lower down, by giant spiderwebs). After a couple of dry and bracing days the sky turned black. “It’s raining mournfully, dismally, and ceaselessly; in a sort of hopeless insistent way,” Kermit wrote his mother, in a letter unlikely to be mailed anytime soon.
Groups of Nhambiquaras materialized often, nude and gleaming in the downpour. They had quills jabbed through their septums and upper lips, and carried bows taller than themselves. Even the arrows were five feet long. Rondon gave them goodwill gifts while posting a constant armed guard. He said that they had killed some of his men in the early days of his pacification campaign. Generally they held aloof, but the detachment’s nightly halts
drew them. They were fascinated by the sight of Roosevelt at work on his manuscript, crowding so close that he had to push them gently away.
HARD RAIN. MUD SLIDING IN SHEETS. Ominous telegraph at next station. Lauriodó and Fiala overturned on a rough stretch of the Papagaio. Half their provisions swept away. Fiala nearly drowned. Rio dos Formigas. Well named: local ants small, black, carnivorous. Big blue-and-yellow macaws. Rio do Calor. Two expedition dogs stolen by Indians. Rio Juiná. Balsa ferry. Sand. Skeletons. Blinding sun. Most lethal part of Nhambiquara nation. Rio Primavera. Rain. Kermit plagued with boils. Pium flies by day. Polvora (“powder”) flies by night, floating freely through mosquito nets. Baking heat. More rain. More rivers. Roosevelt reading Gibbon’s Decline and Fall. Rio Festa da Bandeira. Rio Iké. Wooded country now: sparse, scrubby chapadão. Mules starving. Vampire bats. Bullocks streaming with blood. Rio Nicolao Bureno. Indian hunting party. Pineapple wine. Campfire. Naked dancers under the moon. Wailing pipes. Former President of United States clapping to beat of stomping feet. Fragrant jungle. No game. Rain falling torrencialmente. Landscape opening out. Government research farm. Melons, milk, fresh eggs. Mais canja. Mais nudity. Nhambiquara girls around here even pluck pubic hair. For extra allure, one maiden wears a small, live, scalp-hugging monkey. Weather clearing. Telegraph line ends in a clutch of thatched cabins. José Bonifácio station at last.
Colonel Roosevelt Page 42
